


The Remains of a Fine Woman

by Theobule (Saathi1013)



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, F/F, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Murder, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, POV Alternating, POV Third Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-18 20:48:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3583497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saathi1013/pseuds/Theobule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Did they send you in here because you’re the only one on the team I don’t know well enough to read, or because you’re the only one on the team whose judgement isn’t clouded?”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Maybe it’s a little bit of both,” Kate concedes.  “Is there someone else you’d rather talk to?”</i>
</p><p><i>Allison’s smile is a fleeting, sinuous thing, nothing like the wan smile in photos from five years ago, even less like the bright, wide grin in photos from ten.  She looks at the mirror when she answers, “No, but tell them I’d like to say hi.  For old time’s sake.”</i><br/>---</p><p>Her name isn't Allison; this is not the first time she's changed her identity.  She was supposed to die; instead she ran into a familiar face.  She's not sorry about what happened after that.</p><p>She probably should be, but she's not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Remains of a Fine Woman

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to know the full premise/background, scroll to the end notes.
> 
> No beta; holler if you see mistakes.

“It’s Allison now, right?” Kate asks. The suspect nods, her chin high. Composed. Patient. “You look like someone I’d run into at a PTA meeting,” Kate observes, sitting down at the interrogation table. “Not a woman who’s killed eleven men across six states.”

“Eleven?” Allison tilts her head. “That’s an… interesting number.”

“Too low? Too high?” Kate pages through Allison’s file, just for show. “I mean, I know how frustrating it can be to get underestimated all the time.” She flicks her gaze back up, shrewd. “I also know how useful it can be.”

“I’m sure it can,” Allison replies. She folds her hands, the shackles rattling against the table, and leans forward, her voice dropping conspiratorily. “May I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Did they send you in here because you’re the only one on the team I don’t know well enough to read, or because you’re the only one on the team whose judgement isn’t clouded?”

“Maybe it’s a little bit of both,” Kate concedes. “Is there someone else you’d rather talk to?”

Allison’s smile is a fleeting, sinuous thing, nothing like the wan smile in photos from five years ago, even less like the bright, wide grin in photos from ten. She looks at the mirror when she answers, “No, but tell them I’d like to say hi. For old time’s sake.”

***

This is what they know for sure: after leaving the BAU, Elle Greenaway worked as a profiler in the Seattle field office for a couple of years before moving into private security. During that time, she killed three men in the line of duty; they were all, as they say, ‘good’ kills, each a criminal attempting to hurt innocent civilian(s), a fellow agent, &/or Greenaway herself.

Shortly after her arrival, she joined a support group for people with post-traumatic stress disorder. Eventually, she started her own group specifically for survivors of serial crime. It was a small group, but when interviewed, members of the group spoke highly of her work there.

As far as anyone can tell, she had no other significant social activity. She dated a few men sporadically, but none of the relationships lasted very long.

Her financial records show that she spent a great deal of money on home security upgrades. There is a bottle of prescription-strength sleep aids at the bottom of her purse, but it’s only half full. It expired eighteen months ago, as did her last lease.

***

“Hey, Elle,” Morgan says, as casual as if this is a catchup session between old friends. He even slides over a cup of coffee.

“Hey yourself,” she says, taking a sip. “Mmh, too sweet; I take my coffee black now. But thanks.” She grins, flashing her dimples, familiar and strange at once.

“No problem.” He settles in, watching her watch him. “I like your hair.” It’s shorter, flippy and reddish-brown.

“Thanks,” she says again. “It’s easier to manage.” Easier to wash blood out of; easier to hide under a wig. She doesn’t mention that, though, and neither does he.

“So,” he says. She lifts her eyebrows, waiting. “What’s new?”

Elle can’t help laughing. “Please tell me they didn’t put you in charge,” she says. “Because that was just sad.”

“Oh, I’m not here to question you,” Morgan says. “I’m just keeping you company while we talk to your partner.”

Despite herself, Elle reacts, face going still and stony.

“Ha, see, not so sad after all, huh,” he says, and drinks his coffee.

***

They also know this: Allison’s name used to be something else, and then something else before that, and something else before _that_ ; she had it legally changed one last time after the funeral. She moved to Seattle and found work appraising and restoring rare and antique books, working mostly from home. When interviewed, one of her clients comments that she was kind and quiet, “but skittish around children.”

At first, Allison did not socialize. She spent some time on the internet, but more often borrowed dvds and audiobooks from her local library. She took up knitting, and gave away the finished products to neighbors and friendly acquaintances. According to her credit card bills, she regularly purchased a noteworthy, though not _too_ alarming, quantity of wine at her local liquor store.

Two years ago, Allison joined the serial crime survivors support group founded by Elle Greenaway.

***

“What we can’t figure out is,” Rossi says, looking down at the table as he lays out the photographs of the victims. “Which one of you was in charge? Did you pick the targets, or did she? Did you choose the weapons, or did she? Who was the bait, and who was the attacker? Who decided when you would strike, and where, and what method you’d use to dispose of each body?”

Allison glances at the images for just a moment before her gaze slides away, focusing on him. “David,” she says gently, “Look at me.” He does so reluctantly, his mouth curled in on itself, cramped and unhappy. “Why do you think one of us had to be in charge?”

“Because that’s how these things _work,”_ he says. “There’s always a dominant partner and a submissive one.”

“Not this time,” she says, and pushes the photographs away.

He leans forward, bracing himself over the table on his knuckles, not looming over her so much as supporting some invisible weight on his shoulders. “I just can’t believe that you’d both be capable of… all of this,” he admits. “I can’t reconcile the girl I met all those years ago with what I see in these photos.”

“The girl you knew is dead, David. She got stabbed seventeen times and bled out on her living room floor,” Allison tells him. “Why else do you think I changed my name?”

***

This is what they don’t know: Elle didn’t recognize Allison at first. The two women hadn’t really had much cause to spend time together before, and Allison’s appearance -- her drawn, older face, her brunette bob -- was just different enough that she didn’t immediately register.

It wasn’t until her third appearance at group, when she finally got up to share her story, that Elle suspected who she really was, doing a quick, furious Google search on her phone from the side of the room.

“...I thought he was talking to me, but he was talking to my husband’s body, and he was saying, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll make it quick, kids were--’” Allison took a shaky breath, eyes glittering with tears. “‘Kids were never my thing anyway.’ And I. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t _move._ I tried, but even my fingers were heavy and numb and cold, and--” She covered her face with one hand, and her voice was muffled. “The next thing I heard was my son’s voice, screaming.”

Elle looked at the photo on her phone, squinting, seeing the resemblance finally, while Allison said, “I’m not sure how, but I got one hand on my husband’s gun. The son of a bitch actually looked surprised when I shot him. And I don’t feel bad about it, not even a little. I just… I don’t understand why I’m alive and my family isn’t. He came after me first. I was ready to go; I was so _tired._ And I’m _still_ so tired, all the time. I just... don’t know why I’m still _here.”_

Elle went over, tucked Allison under her arm, thanked her for sharing, and the rest of the group added a chorus of susurrant support. She gave Allison a tissue from her pocket and gestured for someone else to take their turn. Allison blew her nose, then got up to get some water.

Elle followed. “I’m sorry I wasn’t at the funeral,” she said in a low voice. “Aaron was a good man.”

 ~~Allison~~ Haley dropped the little conical paper cup, water splashing over their shoes.

***

“Did you know that there’s actually no reliable data on the occurrence of criminal impulses among members of law enforcement, state or federal? There’s some speculation that violent tendencies get primarily sublimated into the job, and the higher rate of domestic violence among police officers might be construed to bear that out, but whether the job fosters or attracts people with such inclinations is difficult to determine, especially given the low rate at which such crimes are either reported or prosecuted,” Reid says, staring at his restless hands the whole time.

“I never realized how much I missed that about you,” Elle tells him.

He looks at her as if she’s slapped him in the face, eyes wide and mouth shutting into a crooked, restless line. “...I missed _you,”_ he says finally. His voice is small and somehow young, as if he’s still the kid she’d met on her first day at the BAU. He’s not, though; she can tell by the way he inhabits his body, the way he holds his shoulders, the shadows in his eyes.

“But?” she prompts, knowing there’s another shoe.

“...but I don’t know if the person I thought I knew -- the person I miss -- ever really existed to begin with.”

“You always knew who I was,” Elle says. “It’s just harder for you to pretend you don’t, when I’m not pretending _with_ you, is all.” She leans back in her chair, relaxing as best she can while tethered to the table. She gives Reid a wistful smile. “Allie -- _Haley_ \-- is the first person who’s ever been honest with herself about liking who I really am. And I… I like who she’s become.”

***

Financial records show that Allison Rivers and Elle Greenaway met at the same establishments in Seattle for about six months, starting with lunches at delis and diners and then, more frequently, restaurants and bars in the evenings.

Then they stopped.

There was nothing particularly special about their last night on the town. However, the third outing prior to that coincided with the disappearance of Daniel Sullivan, a local man described by women as “handsome but handsy,” by bartenders as a “rowdy drunk,” and by his wife as “a cheating scumbag.” His body was later discovered scattered throughout the Haro Strait, which made jurisdiction just enough of a pain in the ass that it took a while for anyone to properly investigate. In that time, leads dried up, witness’ memories went fuzzy, and the two outdated security cameras that might have yielded a clue had already cycled over their old data.

Daniel Sullivan had been a mistake on several levels.

What had happened to the _subsequent_ men had been deliberate.

***

“Let’s dispense with the formalities,” JJ says brusquely as she comes in. She doesn’t sit down; she just paces back and forth on the other side of the table. “After all, I know you never really liked me. I don’t know why, but I used to suspect it was because we’re both pretty and petite and blonde -- apparently, Aaron’s type -- but you felt like I got to see him more than you did, making me a convenient target for your resentment about his job. Fine, whatever, I could deal.”

“That’s not true,” Haley says, sitting up with an indignant expression.

“Okay then,” JJ says, pausing to look at Haley, folding her arms. “What was it? Why did you always lock down when you saw me?”

“I didn’t mean to,” Haley says. “You just… you used to remind me of my college roommate.”

JJ’s gaze unfocuses for a split second, and Haley realizes that she’s listening to something. “Violet Harvey? What about her?” JJ asks.

“Who’s talking to you?” Haley responds instead. JJ feigns a blank look, so Haley points to her ear. “Who are you listening to? Is it Penelope, or did Penny finally leave for less gruesome pastures?”

JJ sighs. “It’s Garcia,” she concedes. “And she wants to tell you that she’s -- quote -- really sorry that you turned into some kind of cold-blooded angel of gory vengeance, but she still doesn’t like being called Penny.”

“Oh,” Haley says. “Sorry, Penelope,” she says to the camera in the corner of the room. She turns back to JJ. “And I’m sorry I interrupted you. You were about to profile me, right? So, you know. Go ahead and profile.” She waggles her fingers on the last word.

“All right, let’s see… Violet Harvey was your college roommate until your first semester of junior year, which is when her grades abruptly plummeted and she dropped out. Shortly after that, her parents received a large amount of money from a... George Imler, who. Oh. Was the father of Brad Imler, another student at your school.”

“I was so proud of Aaron when he was a prosecuting attorney,” Haley says, forestalling whatever JJ is about to say next. “Fighting the good fight, you know? Getting criminals off the streets. And I was proud of what he did at the BAU, too. I just… wanted more time with him.” She looks away, blinking rapidly, lifting one hand to brush her fingers under her eye, but the gesture gets cut short by her restraints. “Oh my _god!”_ she says, voice rough and raising. She shakes the tether. “I’m not going to hurt you, why am I even _in_ these stupid things?”

JJ’s gaze softens. “We’re not afraid you’re going to hurt us,” she says. “We don’t want you to hurt _yourself.”_

“Why would I--?” Haley asks. “Wait. Is Elle okay?”

For half a heartbeat, JJ considers lying to her. “...yes,” she says. “We have her in custody. I think Rossi’s in with her now.” She watches Haley unwind a little at the news. “...were you in love with Violet?”

Haley goes very, very still. “ _What?”_ she asks, and there is something in her voice, a sharpness to her expression, that reminds JJ that the former housewife almost _certainly_ had a hand in the brutal deaths of at least eleven men, if not more.

“I’m just wondering if you realized you were a lesbian before you married Hotch, or after. Was that the real reason you left him?”

Haley sighs. “I’m _not_ a lesbian. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“So when _did_ you start sleeping with Elle? Did you cheat on your husband, Haley, or did he know about it? Did you have an _arrangement?”_

“Shut up,” Haley says, lip curling. “That’s not what happened, and you _know_ it. I _loved_ Aaron. I was faithful to him until the day he-- until the day he died. There was never, never anyone else until Elle and I--” Haley almost slips, and JJ can see it register in her eyes. “--until we ran into each other again in Seattle.” She glares daggers at JJ. “How _dare_ you use his memory like this. What would he say if he were here?”

JJ swallows hard. “That he’d trained me well,” she says, and doesn’t even wait for the full impact of that statement to land before she adds, “I’m not as good as he was, though. You should have seen him work, Haley. He’d be _done_ with you by now.” She leaves, letting this settle in.

If JJ makes a beeline for the bathroom with shaky legs and queasy stomach, Haley doesn’t see it.

***

Only Elle knows this: when they were finished with Daniel Sullivan, Allison shut down in the car, her eyes glazed over and her hands limp in her lap. Elle swore under her breath and drove as fast as she could to Allison's apartment. “It’s okay, it’s okay, Allie, it’s okay. Allie, come on, I need you to stay with me, focus,” she said, parking behind the building, guiding her friend up the back staircase.

Once back in familiar -- safe? -- surroundings, Allison shook her off, twisting away from Elle’s guiding hands. “I’m okay,” she muttered, but she wouldn’t make eye contact and her path was unsteady as she made her way to the kitchen. Elle gave her space, but followed warily, just in case, not knowing what was going to happen next. “I’m okay, I’m fine,” Allison said, grabbing a bottle of white from the fridge door and yanking out the cork. All of her movements were stilted, a touch too fast but halting, like a stop-motion puppet. She brought down a wine glass but the stem shattered in her fingers when she set it on the counter too hard.

Elle scrambled forward, catching the cracked bowl of the glass before it rolled off the counter. Allison was staring at her hands, at the bright crimson that welled up from the cuts on her fingertips.

“Shit,” Elle said. She turned on the tap, turned it to cold, and grabbed Allison's wrists to pull her hands under the water. Allison resisted, tensing up. “Allie. Allie, come on,” Elle said, and then finally: _“Haley.”_ The other woman froze, then thawed in increments.

Elle had never called her that, not here. “Haley” had been a coworker’s wife back in Virginia and DC; in Seattle, she was Allison, a fellow survivor and a widow, Elle’s friend.

Allison let Elle clean her cuts, watching silently as Elle got a brush to take care of the older, dried blood under their nails. She hissed through her teeth wordlessly as Elle added antiseptic and bandages from the first aid kit under the sink. The abrasions on Allison's palms were almost impossible to cover properly, but Elle did what she could.

“Why don’t I feel anything?” Allison asked as Elle fumbled with a curling strip of medical tape.

“It’s called shock,” Elle replied, notching the side of the tape with her canines and tearing it neatly. “That’ll wear off.”

“No, I mean. It feels like, like with Foyet. I don’t, I don’t think I feel bad about it. I’m not. I’m not sorry.”

Elle looked up at her, eyes blazing. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” she said. _“Nothing._ He attacked you, you defended yourself. It was justified, Allie.” She fixed the last corner of the gauze and gave Allison's hands a gentle squeeze. “You have _nothing_ to be sorry for,” she repeated.

Allison searched her eyes for a long moment. “...you killed someone, didn’t you, back when you were in the BAU.”

Elle could have shrugged it off, said that of course she had, that was part of her job. She’d killed more than one suspect in the field because she’d needed to... But she was pretty sure that that wasn’t what Allison was asking about.

Of course Hotch must have confided his concerns to his wife.

Elle took a deep breath. “...yes,” she replied.

“Would,” Allison said, reluctantly then all in a rush, “Would you do it again?”

“Yes.”

Allison's voice got very, very small. “So would I. What. What does that _mean?”_

“I don’t know,” Elle lied. The smile she got in response to that was faltering, and yet knowing and kind all the same.

“You’re a terrible liar,” Allison said, pushing Elle’s bangs to the side, behind one ear, her bandaged fingertips lingering there. “But that’s okay.”

And then Allison kissed her, cautious and almost sweet.

***

“I don’t know why I’m here,” Penelope says, twisting one chunky turquoise ring around and around her thumb. “It’s funny, I keep remembering you as a mom, right? Holding Jack, Hotch smiling at you like you were both his whole world…”

“That was never true,” Haley interrupts. “We were never his whole world, and that was okay. I only ever wanted us to be a little bit more of it than he could spare, I think.”

“Yeah,” Penelope says. “Yeah. It’s just so _weird,_ seeing you like this. In here. I guess I thought talking to you would help me process, you know? But it’s like -- like I got sucked into a parallel universe, or you’re Haley’s evil twin, without the goatee or the crop tops, of course, but. You’re not _our_ Haley, not Haley Hotchner, wife and mother, or even Haley Brooks, divorced mom. You’re…”

“Allison Rivers, widow and… what do you call them? Unsubs? Alleged unsub.”

“We’ve got all the evidence we need to convict you, though. You _have_ to know that. We have all your bank records, the -- admittedly very tricky -- digital footprint you left when you researched your targets. We found the storage units you used as staging areas, everything. We know that the first man you killed was a guy who’d been stalking and terrorizing one of the women at your support group…”

Haley smiles and shakes her head. “He wasn’t the first man I killed,” she says. “George Foyet was the first man I killed.”

“Right, okay. That makes sense. It’s like bookends,” Garcia says. “The first guy wiped out your whole family before you killed him, so when a family annihilator showed up in your backyard, you couldn’t resist.”

“You make it sound so... neat and tidy,” Haley says. “Reality is a lot messier than that.”

“I know,” Garcia says. “Oh, believe me, I saw the pictures, so I really, _really_ know. I mean, _yikes._ But that makes me wonder… you were extra super duper careful before that -- we probably wouldn’t have found what we did if we hadn’t been looking for it, working backwards. So why would you be so sloppy with this last one?”

Haley smiles. “Did Aaron ever tell you how we met?” she asks.

***

“Is it possible for someone to get addicted to cupcakes?” Elle asked. “Because if so, I think we need to get you into rehab.”

“I can’t help it, this lemon ginger is _amazing,”_ Allison said, licking icing off the side of her thumb. “See the news this morning?” Elle glanced around, but the closest person in the park was a tiny woman with an even tinier dog, well out of earshot.

“Yeah, but we can’t. Don’t even think about it.”

“Why not?”

With the hand she had tucked in Allison's elbow, Elle tugged, stopping them both in their tracks. “Because those two families make a pattern, and if our old friends aren’t on their way already, they will be soon. They’ll notice if their unsub turns up as fish food.”

 _“They?”_ Allison scoffed. “They couldn’t get Foyet. They never stopped the criminals that we took care of. _They_ haven’t noticed _us,_ in eighteen months and almost as many batches of chum.”

“Eighteen months isn’t long enough to boast about,” Elle said.

“It is when it’s all borrowed time,” Allison replied; “Garcia’s going to find the disappearances anyway, once she starts digging through the local databases.” She leaned in to give Elle a lingering kiss. “Come on, if we’re going to have a reunion, may as well show off a little, right?”

“Oh my god,” Elle said, her nose wrinkling as she grinned despite herself. They both knew she was going to give in; she was _always_ going to give in. “You are _such_ a drama queen.”

“Yeah, but you love it.”

“I do. I really, _really_ do.”

***

“Will I get to see her again, do you think?” Allison asks, as Kate leaves. The agent pauses, taps the file folder against her fingers thoughtfully.

“Maybe,” Kate replies. “But just in case, is there a message you want to give to your wife?”

“No,” Allison says. “Wait, actually, hold on. Tell her… tell her that she’s the only reason I’m glad I survived.”

Kate nods, and leaves her alone in the interrogation room. Allison stares past her reflection in the mirror and wonders who’s watching from the other side.

She hums Gilbert and Sullivan, and she waits.

 

 

\-- END --

**Author's Note:**

> This basically came about because I was trying to figure out just how many pairings I ship in this fandom. Turns out: a TON. So many that I had to make a diagram. The little bubbles for Haley and Elle somehow ended up near each other and I said to myself, "OH HEY...wait, how would that WORK."
> 
> "Haley survives Foyet alone and runs into Elle and they become mission-oriented serial killers" was the answer I came up with. It's super grim, I know. I'm not entirely sure why this felt so satisfying to write, but I suppose watching ten seasons of _a show about serial killers_ in about a month is bound to affect one's muse somewhat.
> 
> The part about a "higher rate of domestic abuse among police officers is true, unfortunately. [ [source](http://www.theatlantic.com/national/archive/2014/09/police-officers-who-hit-their-wives-or-girlfriends/380329/) ]


End file.
